


The Bastille

by words_of_a_broken_man



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, AU- fic, AU-Bedannibal, Accidental hero, Bathtubs, Bedannibal - Freeform, F/M, French Revolution, Historical, Historical AU, PWP, Smut, Surgery, electric-couple prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 19:12:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12091566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/words_of_a_broken_man/pseuds/words_of_a_broken_man
Summary: A prequel to 'The Anatomy Lesson of Dr Hannibal Lecter'Drawn into the revolution by an old colleague, Hannibal and Bedelia find themselves operating a makeshift surgical clinic out of a tavern basement as Revolutionaries storm the Bastille.I had way too much fun writing my initial piece for @electric-couple's AU prompt, and this spilled forth...





	The Bastille

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NotPersephone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/gifts).



**THE BASTILLE**

On July 11, they moved to within striking distance of the prison, taking refuge in the cellar of a tavern as their contemporaries strategized. Drawn from the quiet confines of the teaching clinic and theatre at the Arts des Paris by Jacques Croteau, an old colleague turned resistance leader, Bedelia suddenly felt alive. Separated from texts, academic regimen absent; they held purpose now. This was no longer about medicine; it was history.

When the sparsely armed militia advanced in the early hours of July 14th, life would never the same for Doctors Lecter and du Maurier; idealistic conversation over Burgundy replaced by claret staining their hands. Night and day merged below ground as he toiled over an endless stream of broken men with her by his side; measured, steady hands never wavering even as those around him succumbed to fatigue. The able bodied men tasked with restraining the wounded left haunted by screams and deep bite-marks in leather straps as Hannibal fought time to repair shattered bodies. He worked efficiently, devoid of emotion as he doused wounds in brandy, cauterizing with a commandeered blacksmith’s poker, closing gashes with twine; the cellar became little more than an abattoir. The amputations were without question the worst; he could remove a leg now in a little over a minute, yet he still debated slitting the throats of these poor boys. Sawing through the bones of wild-eyed men restrained by their brothers, screams audible in the tavern upstairs, perhaps even outside on the rue Saint-Antoine… Death never troubled him, but torturing the innocent cut him to the core. There was no beauty in war; death was kinder. 

It would be days after their flag flew above the Bastille before he was afforded any respite, by that time he was a shadow.

“I need you to hold him still.” Hannibal urged; frustration creeping into his generally measured demeanor. One man sat on the table atop the young soldier’s legs in an attempt to pin him, the other held a belt firmly in his mouth. “The boy will suffocate if I don’t relieve the pressure on his lungs. I can’t do that if he’s moving.”

Hannibal grabbed his patient by the chin, clicking his fingers; sweat beaded on the boy’s face, eyes wide with terror.

“Do either of you know his name?” The two men shrugged, Hannibal shook the hair back off his forehead.

“His name is Luc.” Bedelia descended the staircase into cellar, two sturdy men in tow. She turned to them, “Help hold him down.”

They joined Hannibal at the table, pinning the boy’s arms.

“Luc.” Hannibal gripped his chin firmly. “Can you hear me?”

The boy nodded feverishly, gasping for breath.

“Your chest is full of air. If I don’t relieve the pressure, you will die.” Hannibal paused. “This will hurt, but the less you move, the faster I work. Do you understand?”

Luc nodded, eyes darting around the room.

“Bedelia, there are some lengths of iron pipe over there.” Hannibal gestured toward a table cluttered with improvised surgical supplies. He quickly swabbed the boy’s side with brandy, making a fast incision through the skin and membrane between his lower ribs. Luc gasped, breath flooding back into his lungs as air hissed from the incision. She handed him the length of pipe, he doused it quickly in brandy, wedging it between his ribs. Hannibal moved to the bullet hole in his chest, extending the entry wound through the muscle, feeling around for the projectile as the boy screamed and writhed beneath him, sharp edges of shattered rib catching his fingers.

“Luc, stay still.” Hannibal warned. The men shifted, bodily forcing his shoulders down against the table.

  
“Forceps?” Bedelia peered over his shoulder.

“Not yet. I can’t risk additional damage to his lung.” Hannibal cut further through the membrane, with any luck the boy would pass out from the pain, rendering this little more than a traumatic, hazy memory. “Forceps.”

Bedelia placed them in his outstretched palm. Hannibal gently reached into the wound, extracting a musket ball and dumping it into a bowl on the table along with a few shards of bone. He grabbed the lamp from the table, holding it aloft as he probed the fissure for any remaining debris.

“Packing?”

Bedelia passed him a handful of gauze; Hannibal soaked it in brandy and forced it into the hole carved into the boy’s chest. Luc tensed, screaming as the liquor stung his flesh before slumping back against the table.

“Lift him up.”

Two of the men hoisted him into a sitting position as they bandaged his wounds.

“Keep the mouth of the pipe open like the others, Bedelia.” Hannibal gestured to the crude valve installed between the boy’s ribs. She carefully bandaged it into place as the boy swayed, held steady by the other men.

“Take him upstairs,” Hannibal stepped back from the table, wiping his hands on a scrap of blood-crusted cloth. “Tell Jacques the boy needs opium.” Hannibal picked up the bloodied musket ball, holding it in front of Luc’s eyes. He tucked it into the pocket of the boy’s trousers. “You are a brave man, Luc; a fortunate one. Never forget how close you came to leaving this world.”

The men pulled Luc to his feet, hauling him up the stairs.

Hannibal tossed the cloth onto the table.

“You don’t need Hunter’s treatise on gunshot wounds, Hannibal.” Bedelia collected his instruments, dropping them into a bowl of turpentine.

“No.” He leaned heavily on the table. “When the Revolution is over, he will need mine.” Hannibal glanced up the stairs. “The boy was our last?”

“Yes.” Bedelia collected the lamp from the table. “Let the men clean. You need to rest, Hannibal.” 

He slowly trailed her up the stairs from the cellar, pausing to swipe a bottle of Armagnac from the bar as he passed. Coated with blood and sweat he glanced across the makeshift hospice that had overtaken the tavern. Silence fell across the room as the men and nurses acknowledged him; a spread of quiet, grateful faces. Hannibal pulled his blood caked shirt over his head and tossed it into the fire.

A hand caught his calf. Hannibal looked down.

“Merci, Docteur.” A young man with a bandage across his eye gazed up at him from a mat on the floor.

Hannibal nodded, gently placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Docteur.” Bedelia handed him the lamp, disappearing into the kitchen. Hannibal surveyed the room, nodding silently. The price of freedom was always paid in blood. He turned away, slowly making his way up the stairs to the tavern-keeper’s quarters.

He placed the lamp on the nightstand; slumping into the chair in front of the fireplace to take a long swig of Armagnac; eyes squeezed shut as the warmth of the liquor washed over him. Oblivious to when he had last eaten, the world warped as fatigue claimed him. Heavy footsteps ascending the stairs shook him back to awareness; Bedelia appeared with three men lugging pots of steaming water. She gestured toward the tub on the far side of the room.

“Move it to the hearth and fill it, please.” 

The men nodded in compliance.

“Merci.” Bedelia offered an appreciative smile.

“Mademoiselle Docteur,” One of the men paused on his way out. “You both must eat? Please. Pierre will fix something?”

“Let le Docteur bathe.” Bedelia shepherded them out the door. “Perhaps in an hour or so?”

“Oui.”

Hannibal extended his arm, offering her the Armagnac. Bedelia dipped her head, raising a hand to decline. He shrugged, taking another swig as he peeled off his boots. He stood up slowly, shedding his trousers and tossing them into the fire. She watched him, bloodstained and naked as he folded himself slowly into the small tub. Bedelia pulled a stool up next to him, cloth and soap in hand. 

“My time as a surgeon will be brief.” Hannibal sighed. Bedelia began to silently wash the viscera from his skin by the firelight; an unintentionally intimate cleansing ritual borne of the first day of conflict. Exhausted and numb she had found his naked, bloodied form splayed across the rug in front of the fire after a trip to the faculty for supplies. In that moment she swore she would never allow any man to see her proud companion stripped bare; the boys could chase supplies. Absorbed in work, Hannibal neglected himself, her responsibility apparent. The morale of these young men far too fragile, the sight of their brilliant surgeon deconstructed a step too far.

“Hannibal.” She soothed. “You’re a hero to these men. So many owe you their lives.”

“Their lives are tenuous.” Hannibal took a swig of Armagnac. “Keeping wounds clean in these conditions is fraught with more danger than any surgery. Most will be fortunate to survive a week.”

Bedelia dipped a cup into the bath, pouring water over Hannibal’s head and shoulders; his eyes flashed shut as the hot water cascaded down his skin.

“This is just the beginning, Bedelia.” He mused, inspecting the stains beneath his fingernails. “More blood will be shed, Louis will never compromise.”

“What would you rather?”

“Kill him myself and be done with it.” Hannibal slowly rose from the tub. “You bathe, while the water is still warm.”

He dried himself, pulling on a fresh pair of trousers as she shed her clothing, slipping into the tub of pink-tinted water before he could catch sight of her, knees folding modestly beneath her chin. Hannibal assumed her position on the stool.

“Self conscious this evening, Bedelia?’ He probed, slowly pouring water down her back, marveling how it caught the firelight as it beaded against her skin. Tightening her grip on her shins, she curled into a ball in the centre of the tub. Hannibal shifted the stool to sit behind her head, gently kneading the muscles in her neck and upper back with strong, lathered fingers.

“The day will come when I am forced to do more than sew wounds, Hannibal.” Slowly she began to relax into his touch.

“Indeed it will.” Hannibal ran his fingers down her arms, gently easing her grip from her ankles.

“I am not certain I can.”

“You can.” Hannibal mused. “You will. When a man’s fate is in your hands, you forget your own.” He slowly rinsed the soap from her back. “To assume control of the pendulum between life and death his a powerful feeling, Bedelia.”

“You said yourself you feel like a butcher.” She leaned her head back against his knee, firelight immediately dancing across her form in perfect chiaroscuro.

“The butchers hold bayonets.” Hannibal soaped his palms, sliding them slowly down her sides, thumbs glancing the outside swell of her breasts. Head bowed, he nipped at her earlobe. “Butchery is inelegant, but you and I are agents of repair. Even in the moments if feels like torture.”

“And when I find myself holding the blade?” Bedelia purred, barely above a whisper as his hands swept back up to cradle her breasts.

“I will be the man holding the bit.” Hannibal mouthed at her neck, breath hot against her skin. “Dry off. The water is getting cold.”

Bedelia’s eyes snapped open abruptly. She quickly rinsed the last of the soap from her skin and rose slowly from the tub. He enveloped her from behind, holding her firmly as he swaddled her in cloth, before wandering off to retrieve his Armagnac from the nightstand. Bedelia slowly dried herself in front of the fire as he reclined on the bed, watching in quiet satisfaction. She glanced back over her shoulder at him, covering herself demurely, the fire in his eyes matching the flames dancing at the hearth. She wrapped the cloth around herself, leaving the fire to sit beside him on the edge of the bed. Hannibal propped himself up on an elbow, reaching out to tuck a stray blonde curl behind her ear. Fingers purposefully wandering, he untucked the folded section of cloth beneath her arm, letting it fall away beneath his touch.

“You’re not tired?” She leaned in, lips brushing his chastely.

“Exhausted.” He opened his mouth against hers, drawing her in slowly, deliberately, his dry lips and hot tongue spiked with brandy.

“Shhh.” He sealed her lips with a finger, eyes dark with heat. In a quick show of strength he span her, lifting her fine form onto his chest, knees resting either side of his flanks.

“Hannibal!” Her voice jumped an octave, pawing at his hips as he pulled her toward his mouth, gently biting the curve of her arse as he slid his hands up and around her waist.

“I need to taste you…” He breathed, inhaling her scent, tongue flashing out to spread her lips.

“Like this?” Bedelia trembled, shockingly and peculiarly exposed at the unconventional angle. Simultaneously unnerved and excited, she clung to the waistband of his trousers, common sense telling her to pull away.

The heat of his mouth against her flesh was all the reassurance she needed, impossibly good as she caught sight of herself in the small mirror on the dresser, splayed wantonly across his chest as she ground against his lips. Bedelia reached down, snaking a hand into his trousers. Hannibal grunted, dropping a hand down to swat hers away. He reached up, searching fingers absently pinching her nipple as she rested her head on his stomach. Suddenly he shifted, locking his grip around her thighs, holding her to his face. Bedelia heard the click of the doorknob turning.

“Hannibal!” She hissed, trying to break his grasp.

“Let them see.” He suckled at the screaming heat of her, tongue dancing purposefully across her flesh. Bedelia stifled a cry as the door opened.

A young, wide-eyed soldier peered around the door, instantly falling into hasty retreat, gathering his companion in the process.

“Pardon! Pardon!” He slammed the door shut, a mixture of awe and embarrassment flooding him at the sight of their company surgeon devouring his stunning colleague by firelight.

“The food?” The second soldier looked at him, bemused. “Chef said…”

“Monsieur Docteur is ahh, enjoying an entrée.”

The smooth hum of Hannibal’s laughter rolled against her skin. He gently teased her open with a finger.

 _“Aš baigsiu tave, tada užpildysiu jus, kol šaukite…”_ Hannibal mused.

“French or English please, Hannibal.” Bedelia breathed.

His fingers curled inside her as he drank in her heat. She’d let go soon now, he hummed to himself; the thrill of being watched had heightened their encounters from the outset, regardless of how infrequent they became. She shuddered involuntarily, bucking against his touch, fingers biting into his hips. Bedelia tightened around him, grinding shamelessly against his tongue as pleasure wracked through her, coating his face in perfect honeyed mead.

“That’s quite an angle.” She breathed, collapsing across his lean, efficient form.

“A shift in one’s perspective is never a bad thing, Bedelia.”

She pulled herself up, turning to face him as she straddled his hips. A quiet, self-satisfied smile danced across his features as his hand dropped down to free himself from the confines of his trousers.

“You have no intention of moving from that position, do you Hannibal.” Bedelia glared at him.

Hannibal gripped her hips as she lifted herself, slowly sinking down to take him inch by inch.

“You want to tease?” Hannibal breathed, licking his lips to taste her once again; fingers drifting up to lightly pinch a nipple.

“If you elect not to move, Hannibal.” She withdrew slightly, swiveling her hips. “I choose to extract my pleasure from you as I see fit.”

“You intend to use me?” Hannibal’s gaze shifted between her eyes and the impossibly perfect grip of her cunt, desperate to thrust up into her.

“Every inch of you.” She withdrew again, only to sink down onto him hard; both gasping in unison as she took his length in a single swift move.

“I’m yours.” He breathed, watching her undulate above him, muscle elegantly rippling in the firelight in unison with the rise and fall of her perfect breasts. Hannibal sat up, gathering her in his arms to suckle her nipples. Fighting to ignore the heat of his mouth, she pushed him away.

“No, Hannibal.” She chastised. “As I recall, you’re too tired to move…” She shifted her weight higher to torment once again. Hannibal reclined in silent appreciation, hips falling into her slow, teasing rhythm. He licked his fingers, dropping them to gently stoke the heat at the apex of her thighs. Bedelia tilted her hips back, his luxurious, gentle touch at odds with his brutally efficient persona as she slowly coaxed pleasure from him by firelight. He could flip her onto her back and take her at any moment, but the image of her shamelessly riding him for her own gratification was intoxicating.

“As long as I live…” Hannibal breathed, eyes glazing as he moved with her. “I will never see beauty such as this.”

Even through the fog of fatigue and liquor he was so close; his pace quickened, a jarring counterpoint against her deliberate rhythm as he dug his fingers into her hips. Point made, she reached down to caress herself. She leaned forward, drawing him into a deep kiss, nipples skating across his chest.

“Come for me, Hannibal.” She breathed… “Let me feel you.”

A flurry of erratic thrusts and he was spent, stifling a moan against her breast. Heat swelled within her and she joined him amid the fury of her fingertips. She curled up beside him, pulling the duvet up over them.

“You really aren't going to move.” She murmured.

“I may if the boys bring some food…” He pulled her flush against him, tension ebbing away.

“Hannibal…” She laughed, a rich, hearty timbre to his ears. “I have no doubt they’ve seen you eat enough tonight!"

**Author's Note:**

> \- Apparently, towels didn’t exist outside of the Ottoman Empire until the mid 19th century.  
> \- As someone educated in the Queen’s English, it is astoundingly difficult to grasp Lithuanian syntax, Google translate is useless. (That said, you’ll get a fairly accurate reflection should you choose to plug that phrase in)  
> \- I just can’t see Hannibal talking dirty in any tongue that is easily discerned, it would shatter the illusion of control.  
> \- My Google search history is odd.  
> \- I choose to dedicate this to @notpersephone in the hope it encourages her to write a second chapter to 'Prelude'


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